


The Bells of Ghent

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Holmes the idiot, M/M, Victorian, Watson the hero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29026296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: A case takes Holmes and Watson out of London and into danger.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 27
Kudos: 61





	The Bells of Ghent

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Колокола Гента](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29130639) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Once a week to post is not bad. I will try to keep to that or maybe better it. This story uses two prompts, so that gets us closer to the goal. I hope you enjoy this little Victorian adventure and, as always, I love hearing from the outside world! Still working to catch up on comments...
> 
> Oh, the two prompts are: Snow Storm and Bells

If those I loved were lost  
The Crier’s voice would tell me-  
If those I loved were found  
The bells of Ghent would ring.

-Dickinson, E.

Holmes was sometimes a fool of the highest order.

Oh, yes, he is the most brilliant of men, with an analytical mind that is unmatched in our age and I would be the first to say so. Well, perhaps the second, as my friend does not suffer from false modesty. However, as his chronicler, I must be honest enough to mention his flaws as well. [I do acknowledge that some secrets exist in the Strand tales, but only those of dire necessity.] Revealing the fact that even the great Sherlock Holmes is sometimes a magnificent fool is what my agent Doyle would term ‘humanizing him.’

Although that was the last thing on my mind as I sat in the pub room of the Green Man Inn just a few days before Christmas. Devon was not at all where I had intended to be this evening. Instead of lingering uneasily over a pint of the local ale in a pub not far from Exeter, I was supposed to be marking the festive season by indulging in some fine whisky and raucous fun at a London gathering of friends from my old regiment.

I had actually been brushing down my best suit the previous day, in preparation for the occasion, when Holmes had burst into the bedroom, filled with the kind of excitement only brought on by a case that promised the stimulation his mind demanded. “Watson! Pack an overnight bag! We are off to the wilds of Devon in search of a most cunning killer!”

He smiled at me, looking for a moment like a lad who has been given the greatest Christmas gift ever.

Any protest that I might have raised to this sudden change of plans died unspoken at the sight of that smile. With a sigh, I returned my freshly-brushed suit to the wardrobe and reached for a serviceable tweed instead.

*

The landlord brought me my second ale.

He lingered, as if in search of conversation. Bored, no doubt, by the scarcity of custom due to the dreadful storm roaring outside. “Mr Holmes has not returned yet?” he said by way of engaging me.

I was in not in a mood to be engaged.

Whether I were angrier at Holmes or myself was a debate that could be had, but at the moment all I did was give a short reply to the man. “Apparently not,” I said.

My tone clearly indicated a desire to be left alone, so with the instinct of an excellent landlord, he only gave a nod and returned to the bar and a desultory conversation with the two commercial travellers who had found themselves stranded at the inn by the weather.

I stared out at the snow blasting unrelentingly at the windows.

The case itself had turned out to be as interesting as Holmes had hoped. The cunning killer was also a prolific jewel thief, an oddity that caught his attention. “Jewel thieves, Watson,” he had informed me during the train journey to Exeter, “generally avoid violence and are quite often charming gentlemen.”

“Not much charm in garroting wealthy and helpless dowagers,” I pointed out a bit tartly.

“But he had charmed them first, I believe.” Considering the matter ended, Holmes closed his eyes then and lost himself in thought for the rest of the journey.

We were quite alone in the train carriage, so I let my fingers gently brush against the back of his hand.

*

In a short time, Holmes had solved the case.

Or so I assumed. With his usual and extremely irritating habit of secrecy, he refused to tell me the details until “all the pieces are in place, John.” The use of my Christian name was meant to disarm my anger at the idea of him going off on his own. Again. It did not work, but I said no more, not desiring to waste my breath.

Instead, I went to stand at the window of our room and looked out. “It is starting to snow,” I pointed out sullenly. “The porter told me it is expected to be quite bad tonight.”

Holmes was changing from his usual suit into what I called his Burglar Attire. Black polo neck, rough-cut black trousers, a worn black coat. “I will probably return before the ground is even covered,” he said in a tone no doubt meant to reassure me.

I made only a scoffing sound in reply.

Holmes came to the window as well and wrapped his arms around me. “Do not fret so, my dear boy.”

“If I do not fret over you, who will?” I replied gruffly.

He pressed his lips to my temple and then was gone from the room. 

The following hours passed slowly.

The storm grew ferocious.

Holmes did not return.

The howling of the wind outside was nothing to the roaring in my head.

When I could no longer sit calmly in the pub, I returned to our room. Some time composed only of useless pacing passed, until I decided to search through the stack of papers Holmes had shoved into his ancient Gladstone. [I had asked him about the bag once early in our acquaintance and learned it had previously belonged to a favourite uncle, the black sheep of the Holmes family, apparently.]

Primarily, the papers were scribbled notes that I lacked the patience to decipher at the moment. But then I found a hand-drawn map of the area, in Holmes’s usual meticulous style. Immediately, my attention was caught by the circle drawn around a manor called Rose Hill. 

A particularly fierce gust of wind seemed to rattle the very walls of the room. It seemed a warning, but I ignored it as I wrapped myself in my coat and used my scarf to tie the hat upon my head. After a moment, I took Holmes’ scarf as well, the one I had given him on his previous birthday, and wrapped it around my neck. 

Mr Dann, the landlord, was alone in the pub, cleaning up, as I passed through. He was no doubt correct in thinking that even though it was still early that no one else would be appearing this evening to buy a pint. He gave me a look of surprise. “Good God, man, you are not going out into that weather, are you?”

“Needs must,” I replied. “I intend to make for Rose Hill.”

He reached beneath the bar and pulled out a small lantern. “Then at least use this, sir. Go to the top of the road and make a turn leftwards.”

I expressed my gratitude and, just before stepping outside, lighted the lantern.

The snow was blowing so hard that it felt like tiny pebbles striking me and the pale light cast by the lantern barely penetrated the darkness. Still, it was a comfort to me in the night, as I simply put one foot in front of the other. It was not unlike a forced march through the mountains of Afghanistan.

From somewhere nearby, I heard the mournful whistle of a train. The sound went on for a very long time and I realised that the journey must be a slow one because of the storm. The passengers would be happy to finally reach their destination, wherever it was.

I was not unaware that my mind was busying itself with such insignificant thoughts to keep myself from thinking of Holmes and what danger he might be facing. Alone, damn the man. Never again would I allow him to go dashing off into the unknown without myself and my trusty gun at his side. A dark thought wriggled its way in to my mind. _If I had the chance to do so..._ I cast that dire notion away quickly.

To this day, I have no idea for how long I trudged through that dreadful night. Time meant nothing. The increasing heaviness of my legs meant nothing. The tingling in my feet and fingers meant nothing.

The sound of the creeping train had finally died, the whistle at the end resonating with me like a sigh of grief.

It was only a few minutes later, although it seemed much longer, that I saw the lights of a house ahead of me. Rose Hill. I knew, somehow, that Holmes was in there and that he was alive. If he were not, I was convinced that my heart would know. And how he would mock me for the sentiment.

My leaden legs and feet took me to the ground floor window from which the light was emerging. Despite the hour and the weather, no one had bothered to draw the drapery. Somehow, frozen and clumsy as I was, I still managed to be subtle and, using a convenient snow-covered bush, positioned myself so that I could see into the room and yet remain hidden.

The murderous jewel thief looked exactly as Paget would draw him for one of my stories in the Strand. Suave, elegant, clad in perfectly-fitted evening wear. A thin cigar in one hand and a glass of what looked to be champagne in the other. The room suited him ideally. The wood gleamed, the fabrics were pristine, the art exquisite.

Only two things marred the perfection of the vision.

One was the thuggish and exceedingly large personage standing at the door, arms crossed on his massive chest and a sneer upon his exceedingly charmless face.

The other jarring note was my Holmes.

Tied hands and feet to a beautifully polished mahogany chair. Blood trickling from his mouth. And temple. A discoloration that would be a black eye before long. Still, he did not slump, but sat almost at attention to face his captors.

Luckily, they could not hear the low growl I gave. Something primal stirred within my chest, but I managed to hold on to my rational, modern mind and work towards a plan. The howling wind seemed to gentle a bit and I could actually hear the voices from inside.

“...what a shame, Holmes, that you could not see Rose Hill in the light of a sunny day. It is such a lovely place. I am especially fond of the lake. Deep and dark and no doubt full of secrets.” The threat was brutally clear.

“Perhaps I shall return in the spring, Wilkins,” Holmes said hoarsely.

The man, Wilkins by name it seemed, only laughed. “Oh, I expect that by the spring you will be quite familiar with the lake.” He turned his attention to the thug. “The sledge, I think, Henry. And one of those canvas bags.” Then he gave a vague gesture. “You know what we need.”

Henry just grunted. “Cold out there,” he said after a moment.

“Then I suggest you do not dally.”

Sullenly, Henry left the room.

I looked for a moment longer at the two men still inside. Wilkins walked to the chair and used an almost gentle hand to smooth Holmes’ hair back from his face. Again, I reverted to the primitive and longed to punish the usurper.

But first things first.

The wind had picked up again and so it was easy enough to clandestinely follow the hulking bully-boy as he made his way towards the barn. Along the way, I picked up a solid branch probably blown to the ground in the storm and hefted it in both hands.

The bumbling fool never knew why everything suddenly went black.

I left him sprawled on the floor of the barn and went back to the house.

Instead of returning to the window, however, I slipped in through the door and followed the sound of voices to the parlor.

“It is rather a shame that no one will ever know it was Wilkins the jewel thief who brought down the famous Sherlock Holmes. How ignominious for the great detective.”

The taunting tone made me want to growl again. Instead, I stepped into the room, my gun held up. “Rather more ignominious for the infamous jewel thief to be brought low by a simple doctor, wouldn’t you say?” I uttered the words with a faint smile on my face.

It all happened quickly then. Wilkins, after one instant of shock, lunged for a knife on the nearby table and then, as he leapt towards Holmes, I fired. He landed on the lovely Persian carpet and proceeded to bleed all over it.

I knelt in front of Holmes to release him from the ropes binding him to the chair. “I am furious with you,” I said. “Quite, quite furious.”

“I am sorry,” he mumbled.

“Yes, you always are.” Once he was free, I wrapped my arms around him and held on.

He exhaled into my ear, a word too soft to hear.

*

We left everything much as it was at Rose Hill.

A physician being a physician, of course, I managed to drag Henry from the frigid barn back into the house, dumping him in the foyer, constrained quite efficiently with some knots I had learned in Afghanistan. Wilkins himself was in little danger of dying before help arrived, at least after I bound his wound. We would contact the constabulary from the inn.

Whilst I worked to keep the villains alive, Holmes went to the barn and hitched one of the horses to the small cart there. I joined him finally, bringing with me several warm blankets. Once we were in the cart, Holmes slumped against me, his head resting on my shoulder as I wrapped us both up snugly and we set off.

It was a slow journey, even as the storm diminished, and a silent one as well. Sometimes words were unnecessary between us and on those occasions the silence itself spoke volumes. This was one of those times.

We had almost reached our destination, when the bell of the nearby church began to toll midnight. I was startled by the sudden noise, in part because it felt as if the hour should have been much later. But then I realised that there was a certain comfort to be had in hearing the familiar sound.

No doubt it was merely one of my typical fancies that, on this occasion, the usual solemn tone seemed somehow celebratory. I tucked the thought away, perhaps to be shared with Holmes at some appropriate moment.

Tonight, however, we still did not speak, even as we saw the lights of the inn appear ahead of us. Instead, we only sighed in unison as the last peal of the bell faded away.

**


End file.
